The next time someone asks about my birth day, my reply will be It happened 324 days after World War II ended on Sept 2, 1945, at a Naval hospital in Long Beach, CA.

I was a preemie and spent the first of my newborn days in an Iron Lung negative-pressure mechanically functioning respirator.

Instead of going from my mothers womb to her arms, I landed in a fucking machine. I remember that time, it was lonely, I was depressed and I wanted my mom. A unique welcome to the world and it formed my identity.

It was tough on my mom too. She divorced my Navy dad who then headed back to Texas, but my grand-parents were there to help their only daughter.

She already had my three year older brother, and now she had me, stuck in a machine trying to save my little ass.